One And Only
by Novoux
Summary: Five times Jim passed by Spock. One time they actually met.


**Warning: AU-verse. Mentions of domestic violence and alcohol abuse. Read at your own discretion.**

* * *

The first time they passed each other was during the first snowfall of the year. Every street blanketed in snow was bare, empty, and devoid of life save for the few brave ones that trudged through the heavy blizzard with purpose for the night before Christmas. After all, something had to be important to be out in the blistering cold and Jim happened to have as much purpose as the rest of them while on a grocery run for his very empty refrigerator.

His car was dead, sitting idly in his garage at home inside the garage that hadn't opened in months. It was not that he was lazy—no, he knew how to fix his own car—but there was mountains and mountains of work to do. His boss, an unforgiving asshole had just pushed him to work at all odd hours including his workday, hence the lack of time being around home. When push came to shove, Jim found himself with a broken down car, no heating—which was entirely _not_ his fault, but the idiot down the street who had blown out the entire street's electricity—and no food, because he hadn't been to a grocery store to restock in weeks. At least the generator in his home could power the kitchen's lights and the microwave and oven he owned. For a week he was sitting in darkness and freezing his ass off—not a fantastic way to spend Christmas week. Or Christmas Eve, which was at the little drug store a couple miles away from home.

The first time Jim passed him, he was toting a basket of premade meals and water bottles to last for the short while. Not only was his power out, but his paycheck was long overdue. His boss was always stingy about paying on time—which meant to hold off giving out paychecks as long as he possibly could; the law be damned. In effect, Jim was currently (somewhat) broke, shivering, and exhausted. One moment Jim was heading to the checkout counter with the basket shuddering in his grip with each step, the next he was sliding to the polished linoleum floor and meeting headfirst with his reflection. As he had fallen, the sight of dark hair and an impossibly expressionless face met his eyes for a fraction of a second.

For several moments, he blanked out. Probably wasn't unconscious, but he his head and left leg were hurting even after he blinked the black spots out of his sight. The crash of falling to the floor resounded in his ears, but the expressionless face was quickly forgotten when he realized with a disheartened groan that everything in his basket had spilled.

Pushing himself off of the ground, Jim steadily climbed to his knees and gingerly righted the basket lying sideways next to the rack of scarves on sale. The first few bottles of water were scattered to and fro and weren't completely destroyed—but there was water on the floor from several broken bottles—he knew the cashier wouldn't be too happy. With the first bottle in his fingers, he realized that the cashier had probably seen the entire event and was going to charge him extra. All he had was twenty dollars to last him the week, and there was simply no way he could afford to pay for the damage.

The moment he touched the second water bottle some two or three feet away from where he'd fallen, a set of fingers connected to a pale hand briefly brushed against his. Looking up in genuine surprise, the expressionless face met his eyes again, but this time with dark eyes staring into his.

"Are you injured?" the voice brought him out of his torpid state. Instantly Jim realized that he was still holding the water bottle with his hand underneath elegantly sturdy fingers. Oh.

"Yeah, I'm fine." he took the water bottle hastily, feeling the touch linger uncomfortably long on his hand but never once left the gaze of the dark haired stranger. "Thanks." Jim forced himself to look away, keeping his eyes on the floor to avoid any more uncomfortable eye contact. The way the stranger looked at him made him feel like he was being judged from the clothes he wore to how he looked. Right now he really didn't want to hear it.

The stranger kept staring for a few moments longer, but returned to helping Jim retrieve the fallen food items. Although Jim had kindly—forcefully polite—told him he'd be fine picking up the mess, the stranger hadn't been deterred and continued to reach out to grab the premade meals scattered further away.

"This is the last item." the stranger informed him, holding out a box of freezer chicken nuggets—much to Jim's embarrassment as he mumbled a 'thank you' and forced himself to keep a blush away. Their fingers brushed when Jim took the box, and suddenly Jim found himself staring into that impossibly sculpted face.

The cashier was all too delighted to interrupt at that moment. "Hey, you gonna pay for that?" Jim gave a sheepish smile to the perturbed worker but inwardly cringed. The broken water bottles combined with his other things would be all he could pay for, and damn it, he hated being helpless. His week was bad enough with all that was already happening—he sighed, the scarf rack catching his eye and he glanced at it wistfully and the ratty scarf around his neck was nothing compared to those hanging right before him.

A hand reached out in front of his face. Jim blinked dumbly, realizing it was the stranger and his never-ending politeness, or pity. Jim's eyes narrowed at the thought, but he chided himself quietly and allowed himself to accept the newly-gloved hand that helped him to his feet. At his full height, Jim was several inches shorter than the stranger, and it wasn't helping his self-esteem at all. If he could, he'd go home and watch one of those late night crime shows with a mug of hot chocolate and the heat turned up. But no, he had to go home to a chilly house and sleep with old blankets he hadn't the time to wash.

"You appear to be discontented. Have I disturbed you?" the stranger's dark eyes met Jim's and Jim refused the urge to look away stubbornly and refused to conclude the man pitied him. But what would an impossibly gorgeous—yes, absolutely gorgeous in his book—stranger want from him? If Jim learned anything while growing up with an absent mother and a drunken stepfather, he knew kindness wasn't always given without reason.

"No, you haven't done anything." he could really use a mug of hot chocolate. But that was too expensive—why was the stranger looking at him like that—and he had to conserve power. "I'm just in a shitty mood." Jim gestured weekly to the blizzard pouring down outside and mentally kicked himself. A good four inches was already packed onto the ground, and his mood went dour.

"Hey, buddy, buy something or piss off!" the cashier called unhappily. "I don't have time to waste on you, so move it along! Closing's in two minutes."

"Anyway, thanks." Jim spared one final glance in those eyes that just stuck to him and forced himself to brush past the taller stranger. If the situation was different and he had heating in his home, he would've liked to know the man a little better. But he didn't want to deal with anything related to a one night stand when his whole week was shot.

"Can you pay for all this?" the dirty look following the snide comment sparked a heated anger to clench Jim's jaw tightly and pass up the urge to insult the man scanning the items and tossing them into a plastic bag. The way the guy looked—no, judged Jim as he eyed each and every one of those premade meals and water bottles just _screamed_ lower-class trash. Yeah, like he hadn't heard that one before. And damn it, Jim wasn't some _peasant, _but he was trying to find another job and his boss was a narcissistic snob who denied him any rights to search for another source of income.

"Yes, he can. But I will." a smooth voice far too familiar to be unknown cut in abruptly. "You are inferring that he is not able to pay based on his appearance; a highly illogical decision. Are you not one of the 'friendly staff' as listed on your nametag?" Jim and the grumpy cashier were both momentarily surprised when the stranger had appeared at Jim's side, fishing out his wallet and handing the man a folded bill.

The cashier—obviously insulted but intimidated by the stranger—simply took the bill with a huff and narrowed his eyes. Jim turned his attention to the stranger, his curiosity taking hold of him now. "What'd you do that for?" he murmured quietly, a bit harshly when he knew he could've handled the situation himself. He didn't need some guy, no matter how gorgeous he was, to fight his battles.

"You clearly expressed distaste when he judged your items of choice." the guy stated as if he was talking about the weather. How nonchalant this guy had the nerve to be was starting to grate Jim's nerves.

"Yeah, but I could've handled it myself. I don't need your help." at the look of the stranger's slight frown at those words, Jim corrected himself and took his bagged items from the scowling cashier. "Look, I'm thankful you helped me out. Twice, actually. But did you really have to pay for me too? I don't even know you and you're being nice to me."

They approached the door when something glinted in the stranger's eyes. Jim didn't know how to categorize it, but the stranger was cryptic when he answered frostily. "Paying for you was simply logical. Good day," with that, the dark haired stranger with an expression of ice pushed the door open and turned down the sidewalk and vanished in the nine o' clock darkness and heavy snowfall.

Jim rushed out into the bitter cold with snowflakes stinging his exposed skin to catch one last glimpse of the man, but the last thing he saw was a black car driving away. Cold bit into Jim's skin the longer he stared in the direction the car left, and he eventually capitulated to heading home and forgetting all about the dark eyes and the warm fingers on his.

It seemed the song 'Silent Night' had taken a whole new meaning.

(And the next morning, Jim found himself strangely empty.)

* * *

The second time they passed by each other, Jim was cradling a plastic cup of hot chocolate in a dark green cup with artwork scribbled on the side done by a barista with a sense of humor and enough brains to realize Jim wasn't in the best of moods when he came by the coffee shop. No, he really wasn't—not with a bruise covering half of his face and one of his eyes swelling shut. But Uhura—she'd never tell him her real name, she teased him ever so constantly—knew not to ask. Even though Jim was a regular, there wasn't much he'd share except a winning smile and four dollars and seventy-five cents.

It wasn't always this bitter, or really he wasn't always so bitter and Uhura really didn't deserve the strained smile and the reply that he was perfectly fine, mind your own business—yeah, and now he felt guilt stirring in his gut when his words bounced in his own head with the same harsh tone. He'd have to apologize—but right now he just couldn't.

His bad mood already born at the beginning of the day and turning foul after snapping at Uhura just sunk into the lowest depths of his stomach acid when a certain stranger with dark hair and matching eyes walked in with as much poise and grace of a god. This only served to make Jim jealous when he realized who exactly had just walked up to the counter and ordered a drink.

Jim shook his head stubbornly and returned to the blaring white of an empty document waiting for sustenance on his laptop. He needed to write a fifteen page essay summarizing what mistakes he'd made in the past few months on the cases he had worked on and how to correct them. That was his boss' way of asserting himself as the head bastard who "didn't give a rat's ass" about anyone else, in his words.

He glared angrily at the screen. No, he didn't want to do this. No, he didn't think it was fair he had to, or hell, anyone had to. All he wanted to do was nurse his blooming headache on the purplish left side of his face and ignore the curious glances or the ones that pitied him. He didn't even want their pity, and why could they mind their own business?

"May I sit here?" the stone-cold voice that started the growth of the tiny hole in his heart startled him. Jim met with an exceptionally emotionless glance edged with a growing coldness and his own gaze hardened.

"Go ahead." Why someone as gorgeous as him would want to sit with a grumpy lawyer Jim didn't know. He didn't even catch the noticeably softened tone of the stranger's voice when those perfectly shaped lips—damn it Jim, don't think like that—spoke to him.

"You appear to be upset. May I inquire as to why?" Christ, when would people, especially Mr. Perfect stop asking him about every damn thing that just happened to be in his life? Couldn't he realize that Jim was not in the mood to talk about it or did he just not give a flying fuck?

Just as he was about to unleash a lashing of verbal abuse onto the stranger sitting across from him, Jim took a moment to realize that this man was a stranger, was attempting to be nice, and Jim needed to stop being such a damn asshole to everyone he met. Maybe then his face wouldn't be decorated with a dark shade of purple. Instead of replying or doing anything that would undoubtedly end up with the stranger leaving and Jim feeling like a total jerk, Jim turned his attention to outside the window next to his table and watched the April rain fall. Damn, he'd have to walk home in that—and his car still wasn't fixed. But he couldn't go home, not right now. Not when—just another hour, maybe he'd be sober when Jim went home.

The silence that lasted between the two was heavy and mildly uncomfortable. Jim, having stared out the window for several minutes too long, realized he wasn't going to be starting on his essay any time soon with his boss be damned. So he turned back from the window, giving a dejected glance to the laptop's despairingly blank screen and shutting it off before snapping the screen down and storing it in his carrier bag.

The stranger was looking at him. Not judging, but curious and if Jim didn't know any better, he'd say cautiously. But what did he know anyway? "I apologize for provoking your anger. I had not realized you did not wish to speak to others such as myself." he said. Well, the last time they had spoken was four months ago. What made Jim wonder was why the stranger had bothered in the first place and the second time here sitting across from him. He also wondered why he cared, but he quickly dismissed that thought with a miserable dose of self-depreciation and branding his snarky attitude as selfish. He had no right to be such an asshole, in the words of his drunken boyfriend.

And apologies only made it worse. "It's not your fault." Jim cringed as the ghosts of past instances of exactly when he had said that same excuse over and over again came to mind. "But can I just ask you something?"

The stranger raised an eyebrow. "You may. Although I do not understand your reason for asking permission to—"

Jim sighed, pushing away his lukewarm hot chocolate he knew had gone to waste. Damn it. "Why do you bother? Like helping me the first time I get you were being nice, but why are you sitting here and talking to me?"

"I sit here when I visit this coffee shop. You happened to also be at this table."

Oh.

Jim felt his heart sink a little lower in his chest. But then he realized what an idiot he was being—he had a boyfriend who loved him, and no, he did not love this guy who he didn't even know, damn it—and quickly shoved his feelings aside. It was time to go, anyway. And as far as he knew, there was no point in staying anymore.

"Oh, uh, okay," Jim tried to answer but it came out so painfully awkward. "Uh, bye." With that, he slung his laptop carrier haphazardly over his shoulder and tossed the mug of hot chocolate in the trash. Just like that, he'd started and ended a grudging and unwilling conversation in less than five minutes.

What was worse was that he could feel the stranger's eyes (and Uhura's concerned glance) on his back as he hurriedly left and resisted the urge to go back. Uhura would undoubtedly ask if he was alright when he came again, but he didn't need her prying in. He was fine, everything was fine…

So why did it feel so wrong when he arrived to a silent home with a sober boyfriend apologizing for being drunk and then kissing him like everything was going to be okay?

No, really, he couldn't ask for more. He had everything he wanted—a job, a loving boyfriend, a home, why couldn't he be happy with that and forget about those eyes that kept asking him what he was hiding.

One big happy life. That's all he needed to tell himself.

If only he could believe it.

* * *

The third time they passed by each other was the fourth of July. Jim was scheduled to work that day doing paperwork, but his boyfriend—it shouldn't hurt to say that—had pulled some strings and convinced his boss to let him have the day off. What methods of bribery were used Jim didn't know. But at least he could enjoy a day off, right?

Wrong.

The day started innocently enough. If one counted a shouting argument at six in the morning because Jim hadn't wanted to skip work just for some dumb holiday, but his boyfriend wasn't having any of that. After hearing who could shout the loudest and make the walls rattle, his boyfriend smugly called his boss and _told _him Jim wouldn't be coming to work. And to his surprise, his boss grudgingly agreed. (Jim honestly suspected bribery or blackmail. His boyfriend was a master at that.)

From there it went downhill. His boyfriend opened the first can of beer at breakfast despite Jim's subtle protests ("Are you sure you want to drink so early? Why don't you wait until tonight?") that had the hidden message of _please, just don't get drunk today. I don't want to fight anymore_. And like all the other times, he had been blatantly ignored and reassured with the fake smile and promise that it's _just one beer, Jimmy._ ("What's gotten up your ass?") (_It's never just one beer.)_

It hurt. It hurt too much to tell him that his drinking was destroying their relationship. Not even a year old, started in February after finding themselves in each other's beds. He was okay in bed—but he wanted to be something more. And since Jim hadn't had that before, he agreed. But it was hard to convince himself that he was happy when he watched his boyfriend down a beer like water. Then take another, and another, and another.

He didn't see it, but Jim did. He could feel it, even. Jim wanted this to work, he really did. Wanted this because he wanted to feel loved and at first he did. As of now, he didn't feel so loved when his boyfriend shouted angry curses at the TV and constantly insulted Jim whenever he was around. Jim's income was enough to support the both of them after his boyfriend had been fired, but it had been months and he hadn't gotten a job and Jim's income could only support them for so long. So extra work days were in order, and never getting to go home in order to keep them afloat. Jim really wanted this to work.

The entire day his boyfriend was drunk. Didn't want to do anything else but chug a beer. Even raised a hand to Jim—_which he had sworn he'd never do again since April_—and told him to quit being a whiny bitch. And so Jim quietly obliged to his drunken boyfriend's demands because he could never win these arguments and he realized that he would never win a long time ago.

He cleaned, the entire day. Cleaned the bedroom that had one messy side and the other hadn't been slept in for weeks. Jim ignored it for the sake of his own heart and his dumb fantasies that they weren't falling apart and they weren't doing this. Maybe he shouldn't have done this. Maybe he should've never tried.

But he did. Always. And today was like any other day home. Listening to his boyfriend shout at whatever bothered him for the moment. Tried to calm him down when his anger got to be too much and he tried to break something. (There was another bruise on the side of his face from trying to save the coffee table from certain destruction.)

Then at two when his boyfriend had passed out and slept on the couch, Jim got a call from one of his friends that had invited him to a barbeque. And since it was Sulu and they'd known each other for too long to remember, Jim had confirmed that he would go because he'd wanted to visit his friends for a while. Unfortunately, Sulu had remembered Jim had a boyfriend and asked Jim to bring him. And because Jim was a people pleaser, he said yes.

So Jim somehow got his boyfriend to agree to go, and they had a silent drive over to Sulu's house with Jim ignoring any attempts of conversation made. Sulu hadn't said anything when he greeted the tense couple and invited them into the backyard filled with other partygoers.

Jim got the chance to socialize with Sulu and his boyfriend Chekov while his own boyfriend excused himself to wherever the hell he went. Sulu only gave him an apologetic look and Jim shook his head, saying that it was nothing just to keep his friends happy. There was no reason to bring his problems and whine about them. No, today he was here to see Sulu and his other friends.

Uhura showed up, surprisingly. Jim had become good friends with her, but he hadn't known Sulu had met her as well. And with Uhura, well, that was the third time he passed by the stranger whose name was Spock, according to Uhura. No, he'd never met Spock. Just talked to him before. Passed by, moved on.

Lovely.

And soon his boyfriend was getting tipsy and obnoxious and Jim wanted to go home. But Sulu had argued that he couldn't just leave them all after staying for an hour—if only he could realize that Jim wanted to leave for a different reason. Or maybe he did, and it was in one of those sympathetic glances when his eyes remained on the dark mark on Jim's left temple for too long. But one look from Jim and Sulu knew not to talk. Just let him put on the façade of a perfectly happy life so they'd stop asking.

And soon during a conversation with Uhura and Chekov, Jim's boyfriend came up with drunken swagger, demanded to know why Jim was talking to other people besides him, and basically threw a tantrum in front of God and everybody.

"You're cheating on me!" How many times had he heard that before?

"I'm not, I'm just talking." Jim took a deep breath to calm himself because right now he needed it more than his inebriated boyfriend. "Just calm down. You're drunk, and you're embarrassing me."

"'m not drunk, goddamn bitch." he hissed, grabbing the front of Jim's shirt tightly. Now people were starting to get interested in the quarrel and Jim could only try to not think of how embarrassed he was.

"Stop," Jim's voice lowered and he moved himself and his boyfriend to a quiet corner where they could talk. "you're being an ass to my friends. And I asked you not to get drunk." Yeah, like words would do anything.

His boyfriend narrowed his eyes. "D'n' tell me wha' to do. Shuddap for once." he pushed away from Jim, slightly swaying as he walked. "W're leavin'. Get in th' car." His hand shot out, grabbing Jim's arm in a grip too tight and then they were heading to the door.

"No, damn it!" Jim hissed, loud enough for the attention to be brought his way. "Don't touch me, got it? I love you, but—"

"Love me? Ha," his boyfriend mocked, "y're a dirty whore! How can ya 'love me'? Is tha' wha' you tell _him?_" The 'him' was directly pointed to the approaching man that was too familiar with dark eyes and an expression of ice.

"Is there a problem, gentlemen?" Spock's eyes darted from Jim's grim expression to his boyfriend's obvious anger at being interrupted.

"Yeah, there is. Who th' fuck is this punk?" Jim forced a smile at Spock and put a firm hand on his boyfriend's shoulder. _Don't ask don't ask don't ask._

"We were just leaving." he said, tugging his boyfriend's arm with an expression of _do not fuck with me right now_ and for once he was grateful his boyfriend was inebriated enough to comply. But the shame that remained with him—everyone had seen what had transpired, even Spock—he'd have to apologize to Sulu tomorrow. And forget about Spock because he didn't even know him.

He only looked back once—and damn him for doing so—but Spock's stone cold expression seemed to melt just a fragment when he frowned at Jim. But no, that was probably Jim's imagination. Of course a stranger wouldn't care.

The one-sided shouting argument that followed that night would only prove to make the hole in his heart a little bit deeper.

* * *

The fourth time they passed by, Jim was in his office with the usual stacks of paperwork waiting to be signed and filed away for no further use. At least his office was one room—not some stupid cubicle like the accountants had to deal with upstairs. And the view of the city through the large window behind him was incredible, which was an added bonus.

There was a blinking light of _one new message_ from his boyfriend. Jim knew that he'd get a call from him sooner or later after storming out the night before with the hurtful words of a fight pushing him out the door. Of course he knew his boyfriend didn't really mean it—he was drunk, as he usually was. Therefore he couldn't be held accountable for the arguments he'd caused or having the police show up at three in the morning because he shattered a vase—from Jim's mother—against the wall and the neighbors were fed up with listening to the spat. At least his grumpy landlord had been replaced with some new guy he hadn't met. So far Jim was hoping the new one wouldn't charge extra for the arguments like the last one.

In all, this morning was bloody miserable. He came into his office first thing in the morning—five in the morning, earlier than his boss who was vaguely surprised to find Jim filing his paperwork. The guy was a bastard, but at least he had enough sense to not press the issue. The phone rang, and Jim forwarded it to voicemail.

_Two missed calls. One new message._

He sighed thickly, running a hand through his hair and his eyes fell on the photograph of his boyfriend and himself. They were happy then—at an amusement park Jim had never even heard about and his boyfriend had been perfect then. So there was a time when he didn't drink, but it was fruitless and just as pointless to remember and sigh like an old woman.

Jim really loved him. Really loved him as much as he did when they first started dating and his boyfriend was just the spitting image of perfect. He wondered at that time if other people were jealous because of how he'd gotten it all. But not all presents have "From Santa" written in elegant sharpie on the top. So he'd have to love what he already had. And he did.

_Three missed calls. One new message._

The messaging machine was mocking him. This bland, emotionless voice was blatantly making fun of him by reminding him what kind of shit he'd stepped in to and it was all wrong because that bland voice didn't have sculpted features with that weird-but-cute bowl haircut and those eyes—were they black?—that he could get lost in.

Focus, Jim, focus. No, no, don't get caught up in this shit right now. _Focus,_ damn it.

Maybe he could go to Bones and get some sense talked into him. Yeah, that would work because it was Bones, and—

"Mr. Kirk, you have a client." the intern, Janice, knocked on the door and stuck her head in. Jim turned his chair to meet her eyes and it took his brain a moment to process what she had said.

"Bring them in." he intoned, racking his brain for when he had an appointment scheduled for today. No, come to think of it, he hadn't been informed that he'd have any clients today.

"Mr. Kirk," an impossibly calm voice interrupted and his self-pitying mood went down south. His brain haughtily informed him who this client was without needing to look up from his paperwork.

_Damn it man, put it together. _Jim chided himself mentally, taking a breath and slowly exhaling before raising his gaze to meet with the observant gaze of Spock. Ah, yes, what a wonderful way to bring his day down with the rest of the parade.

"Can I help you?" he motioned for Spock to sit, catching the swirl of red and yellow leaves outside the window from the corner of his eye and wishing he could drift away without a care.

"I have filed a lawsuit for a singular tenant in a household with two occupants. However he has failed to adhere to the summons of the court." Spock presented a file and Jim took it—his fingers accidentally brushing against those slim digits that had rested on top of his once upon a time last winter. "I assume your relationship to the tenant will not interfere in this case?"

Wait, what? Before Jim could ask, he had opened the file and a bitter feeling sunk in his stomach when he realized that he was face to face with a picture of his boyfriend. _Oh God._ But wait, don't have a breakdown now, there was a client waiting for him that he thought was far too attractive to be material.

Jim felt the angry accusations laced with curses on his tongue but swallowed them with an uneasy smile that felt more like a frown. Keep it together, Jim—_how could he not have known about this!?_ Looking through this file with records of public disturbance—police records! And Jim had never known—breathe, Jim, breathe.

"O-of course," Jim swallowed thickly and kept himself from looking like a complete moron. He hoped it worked. "I'll notify the judge—" _domestic violence records? _The most recent listed as_…_he felt sick. Actually, he wasn't sick. No, he felt disgustedly dejected _at himself_. "and we'll set up the case. If he doesn't show, then the case becomes a criminal charge and he'll be served with a court order to show up." Good, don't let the façade crumble now, Jim. You can talk to him when you get home—_when will you realize you don't love him_—and try to be civil. Maybe he won't be drunk—_that's bullshit and you know it, just leave him_—and these traitorous thoughts will stop hitting him at point blank.

Spock's expression lightened. Well, just enough for Jim to notice the microscopic difference. He was good at picking up things—_to know when that asshole would try to hit him. Don't kid yourself. _"Very well."

Jim had met those dark eyes he'd fallen in love with—what, no—and that mocking voice in the back of his head was smug. _You love him, you love him—_"Do you have a court date in mind?" he asked, looking through the final bits of the report with the gnawing ache of heartbreak ripping that hole in his heart larger and allowing the deceit to pour out.

Spock's eyes were impossible to read. "As soon as you are available, Mr. Kirk." There was something underneath the tone of his voice that overlapped his words. No, there was no way—he's Spock, and Jim doesn't even know him—that Spock was concerned. That was…illogical.

"Alright." he said, feeling his throat tighten uncomfortably. Spock was still gazing at him and it only served to make him feel more uncomfortable along with the bone-crushing grip of reality choking out every last bit of affection he thought he had toward his boyfriend.

"Mr. Kirk," Spock knew about the bruise on his cheek—freshly inflicted—and it was the elephant in the room that happened to sit on Jim's chest. "May I converse with you in a non-legal manner?"

"Yes." he choked out. Then there were thousands of accusations—_how could you—there's nothing wrong—stop being such a drama queen_—slamming into him at full speed. What he wouldn't give to get out of this suffocating grip and just fly away like the autumn leaves.

Spock's entire expression softened. Gone was that emotionless, cold, and intimidating exterior. Now he looked—not concerned, but, well, he wasn't indifferent either. God, why did he have to fall in love with the man who was serving a court order against his boyfriend? No, not boyfriend. Not anymore, no. He was too tired of dealing with the drunken shit and putting himself down. The only thing that needed to be put down was his foot, damn it. But…

"I suggest you cease your relationship with Mr. Nero. It is illogical you continue to stay with him, and allow yourself to be subjected to such abuses." That hit the floodgate and soon the dam was ready to crack and splinter and give way to the flood. But no, Jim couldn't do that to a guy he hadn't even met. No, they just passed each other. "I am a trained psychologist, but my profession does not guarantee that only I witness the injury you have sustained."

Jim, for the first time in God knows how many years, wanted to cry. Wanted to sob and tear his eyes out along with his heart because that bloody organ was a treacherous thing and just be emotionless just like Spock. How nice that would be. But no, he was a self-proclaimed asshole composed of an empty childhood and plenty of lies. Nothing could bring him down. Except himself, that is.

He wanted to shout at Spock and tell him it was none of his business. But then he also wanted to just…well, not be such a mess and have Spock comfort him and tell him he's not fucking up everything or something from one of his stupid fantasies. Or just date Spock instead—wait, that was wrong. Damn it Jim, pull yourself together.

"I shall speak with you later, Mr. Kirk." Spock left a business card on the table. "That is my business number at which you can contact me within my business hours. However, if you wish to talk to me in a non-business manner, please use the number on the back." Jim didn't touch the card, but nodded carefully with his eyes on the card. And like that, Spock stood and headed to the door. "Ms. Uhura also asked me to inform you of her upcoming wedding. You will receive the official invitation today." And he left, just like that.

The fourth time they passed by, Jim had no idea this would happen. Had no idea that this stranger was more interested in him than he let on, and Jim was too, had no idea that he'd be serving a court order against his boyfriend—ex-boyfriend, or getting a handsome stranger's number. Hell, it had been a day.

That night, Jim found himself with one less drunken asshole and a heart that hadn't seemed to break into pieces when he ended it. Looking at the little card with the number scribbled on the back seemed to make that gap mend just a little bit more. But then he remembered Uhura's wedding invitation and a certain sinking feeling weighed him down.

And that night, he didn't call the number on the back.

* * *

The fifth time they passed by Jim was at the drugstore a couple miles from home. And things had gone downhill from there starting from the moment he kicked his boyfriend out to his boss suspending his pay for a month and him too—yes, he could break the law and get away with it—for a shitty reason and it wasn't even his fault. He knew his boss had gone too far this time—he would've quit too, but he really needed the money and frankly, there was no other firm around.

And at this time of the year, the same time last year he found himself in the same place. Broke, his heating was broken again and he hadn't the money to get it fixed, and generally miserable. Uhura's wedding coming up wasn't helping him either. He didn't even know who she was marrying, unless it was Spock. And he'd seen Uhura hug him tightly—he knew Spock didn't like to be touched—and came to the realization Spock was marrying the beautiful Uhura. Why hadn't he seen it before? Of course, it was only right for the handsome and intelligent guy he was to marry someone just as smart and gorgeous. They were so sickeningly perfect for each other and Jim couldn't understand why he felt so bitter about it. So he simply wrote it off as being the selfish asshole he was.

He had no car, (still broken) and a depressingly empty refrigerator complimented with cupboards devoid of any sustenance. Winter just happened to be his least favorite time. And the Christmas music playing above him while he dropped instant ramen bowls into his basket only served to grate his nerves into dust. Christmas celebrations were always so early, damn it. Why must everyone act as if it was tomorrow? (Well technically, it was.)

The fifth time was pure coincidence, but so were the other times. This just happened to be the same store Jim passed by Spock the first time one year ago and just because he saw him again did not mean it was some stupid 'fate' or whatever bullshit people deluded themselves with. And so after he noticed Spock in the next aisle over, he promptly ignored him entirely in favor of grabbing a six pack of water bottles from the bottom shelf and then forcing himself not to make eye contact with him because damn it—he was getting married, and you can't love a guy you don't even know, Jimmy.

Neither of them said a word the fifth time. Jim preferred it that way.

* * *

The first time they met, Jim's left foot came out from underneath him and sent him tumbling backwards to meet the linoleum floor decorated with spilt papier-mâché cut into snowflakes. The basket full of premade meals and other freezer garbage complete with cheap plastic water bottles was sent crashing to the floor next to him before the contents exploded in each and every direction.

This time, Jim blanked out and didn't come back in a couple seconds. Actually, while the cashier—a new girl, dulcet and with a matching smile came to investigate the crash, a dark-haired stranger with unreadable eyes and a stone-cold expression came to Jim's aid.

"Mr. Kirk?" Spock, the dark-haired stranger noticed Jim's eyes were shut. Immediately Jim's head was cradled on his lap while the cashier had arrived to investigate.

"Oh, he is alright?" she asked, her eyes widening and she knelt down to view the damage, pushing past the fallen items. "There's a first-aid kit in the back. I'll be right back." she stood quickly.

It took several moments of prompting, but eventually Jim's blue eyes fluttered open and he blinked rapidly to clear his vision. It also took him several more moments to realize where exactly he was before springing out of Spock's hold and shoving himself back a foot or two for good measure.

His heart raced and beat against his ribs but Jim forced himself to calm down. "Uh, sorry." he recounted the damage of broken plastic scattered across the floor soaked in water along with several broken packages of premade meals and their contents littering the space around him. His head began to throb.

They didn't say anything as Jim began to pick up the now-useless items. He groaned to himself when he realized he'd have to pay for them along with more groceries, _again, _but then was reminded when he grabbed an unbroken water bottle at the same time a set of fingers had—he didn't pay last time.

Those eyes were always observing, Jim noticed. Every little detail was under the scrutiny of the gaze of the handsome stranger he passed by five times before. And so he took the time, this time, to really notice the sculpted cheekbones complete with pink lips, coffee-bean eyes, and that ridiculous haircut only _he_ could pull off.

"Mr. Kirk?" Those lips moved and he had admitted to watching them with more interest than necessary and it suddenly hit him—this man was going to be married. Tomorrow.

That sudden remembrance tore his gaze away, and he mumbled a word of gratitude before continuing to pick up the scattered items. His heart ached and whined pathetically—he swore he tasted copper on his tongue.

The items were picked up and handed to him—he made absolutely sure that their fingers didn't touch—and placed in his basket. Well, the broken water bottles were scooped up and thrown away by the stranger that would never be his.

Pushing himself onto his knees, a hand was held out and Jim registered the mild surprise that was sure to quickly follow. One part told him to forget it, and just move on, and the other part told him to give in. What the hell, his ego was deflated enough like the rest of his mood. So he took the hand offered to him—it wasn't gloved—and the warmth that radiated from it made him want to keep holding those pale fingers between his own and never let go, but—

"Mr. Kirk, are you injured?" he did _not_ sigh. No, he wasn't going to be part of this drama bullshit. His head was developing a splitting headache and now his hand was hurting and he just wanted to go home, mope with a good movie curled up in old blankets—_and Spock_—and a mug of hot chocolate with extra whipped cream. Well he can't have his cake and eat it too, damn it.

"What?" he came back to reality as Spock eased him off the floor with a steady hand that tightened around his—fit like a glove. "Oh, yeah, 'm fine." Jim moved to pull his hand away, but Spock unexpectedly grabbed his palm and flipped it up. Bright red oozed down a long gash and Jim swore under his breath.

"Well, maybe not." Jim forced a cheeky smile that felt ridiculously pathetic. "Uh, thanks. And…good luck on your wedding." His heart was crippled by those words more than he could've expected.

Spock gave him a pointed stare complete with a raised eyebrow. "I am not participating in a marriage ceremony, Mr. Kirk."

Wait, wait, wait—

_What?_

As speechless as Jim was, he was coherent enough—mentally, to be grateful that Spock elaborated. "You have misinterpreted my relationship to Ms. Uhura, Mr. Kirk. While I am a close acquaintance of Nyota, I do not hold romantic tendencies toward her. Were you unaware she is engaged to Mr. Scott?"

Jim thought his tongue slapped his brain out of his head. Or something that sounded like one of Bones' stupid euphemisms. In other words, he was at a loss for—well, everything. And as fast as his heart crippled and withered away, it suddenly came back to life with a renewed vigor. Damn, he could be in a soap opera if he wanted to. This was getting ridiculous.

"It's Jim." Two simple words. They were his excuse to test the water with the hope and fear of everything and anything could and would happen. And Spock actually _smiled._ (Well, the corners of his lips rose marginally.)

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Jim." Something glittered in those dark eyes. And Jim made sure it was what he thought it was by soundly closing the infuriating gap between them.

Sure enough, those lips moved with his with the feeling of Jim had been missing this for far too long. Five times, five times he'd passed by this gorgeous man and never spoke more than a couple lines of conversation—hell, he even had his phone number and hadn't done a damn thing. God, he was an idiot.

But Spock made up for those five times starting with this one time and hopefully not the only time by kissing him as sinfully as he did. "You have injured your tongue, Jim." So he did taste copper earlier then.

Five minutes had passed since the cashier had searched for the first-aid kit and she finally found it—complete with a small dance of victory before reminding herself she had a hot guy on the floor and heading back out.

The cashier was _quite_ surprised to find the two men kissing as if they'd been separated for years. To be honest, she hadn't known they were together. But those doubts were quickly washed away just as quickly as she left the first-aid kit by them and returned to her post without a word.

As indifferent as she tried to be—she knew she shouldn't get into other people's affairs, but she couldn't help the grin that nearly split her face in half as she cleaned up the final bits of the mess and assured the blond man not to worry about paying.

She watched them leave, hand in hand with a feeling of warmth in her stomach that made her supposedly crummy night of working on Christmas Eve completely worth it.

Outside, Jim kissed Spock like it was the first time. The warmth that lit him up like a Christmas tree (much better than the crappy one he had at home) made his cheeks burn but he could always blame it on the cold.

The first time they met, Jim fell in love.


End file.
